Peering out of the refuge door in the morning was not encouraging, the heaviest of the rain had stopped but there was a swirling mist. Set off in full waterproofs expecting more downpours but as so often happens things weren’t so bad. We were walking on tracks through magnificent pine forests with the occasional tantalising view of limestone cliffs and formations on adjacent mountainsides.

El Ports Path

This is all part of the El Ports national Park.  The maps we had were inadequate [about 1:70,000] for this sort of territory and we were reliant on the frequent red and white way marks of the GR7. These two days also coincided with a five day circuit of the park, called Estels del sud.  [http://www.estelsdelsud.com]  This would give some wonderful walking and I intend to return, if only for the views. The route is well waymarked with blue stars and we found these a great help in supplementing our own fading GR7 marks in the bad weather.

Estela del Sud way-mark.

GR 7 Waymark.

By afternoon we were following an amazing mountainside path below the crest of a ridge with steep cliffs above and below us. Lots of ups and downs but we maintained a roughly 1100m height.  Towards its end we delved into the mountains to cross a pass at 1200m — all very dramatic in the misty conditions. At one point we caught a glimpse of an Iberian Wild Goat with its magnificent horns.

Dramatic mountains

We were virtually dry when we eventually reached the Refuge Caro, run by The Catalonia Hiking Union. In England we don’t often use the description “hiking” any more, a throwback to another age.  Being a weekend the refuge was fully open, the lovely Maria made us welcome and looked after us well. She is the guardian at weekends with her husband and young child. The big problem was the language, we had now passed in to Catalunya and they all speak Catalan which is strange to our ears. Obviously Castellano Spanish is also used, but we struggled to understand when they turned to this — I suspect it is spoken with a strong accent. Despite all this we had a great night, only two other people turned up, with a very satisfying [we were stuffed] meal.

Refuge Caro

Refuge Caro

It rained all night and by morning was getting windy too. We procrastinated over breakfast whether to set off in such conditions. The weather was set to rain most of the day and the guardian warned us to be very careful watching out for the way marks. Over a second coffee we imagined an improving of the storm so agreed to set off, after all this is sunny Spain!  We never did see Mont Caro 1447m the highest summit in the area.

To be honest there was little rain,by our standards, for the first couple of hours. The obvious problem from the word go was following the way marks in the mist, especially on more open ground where the path was not obvious and only the odd stone had paint flashes. There was a lot of  scouting around to make sure we were on track because as stated our maps were pretty useless.

We reached a small open refuge where we took an early lunch out of the wind and by now heavy rain. Following this the route left the forest and took us up onto exposed ridges. Here we took a real battering, hardly able to stand up in the gale and all the time aware of the need not to get lost. There would be no escape routes in these wild mountains and in this poor visibility.

Tough Conditions

At one point on the track we came across the largest toad I’ve ever seen, a good 6 inches long. In view of the weather, I was trying to keep my camera dry but tried to get a shot of it — see the size against basket of trekking pole.

Giant Toad

After 7 hours walking and lots of cols up to 1200m high in the unseen terrain we wound our way down tracks into Pauls, a drop of over 800m. It never stopped raining. This is how Spain makes up for not having had rain for months, only a shame we hit the washout.

Nothing much to say about Pauls, a larger town of 800 people. It was rather dreary and our Alberg not very welcoming. At least we were able to get everything dry by transforming our bedroom into drying room. Rather alarmingly when I was removing my waterproof jacket it literally fell apart at the seams. I  was rather concerned how it would be able to perform for another wet day.

Material Failure

Drying room!

The evening was brightened by a good supper and the usual lively Spanish hospitality in the local bar. The only difference was that it was run by a Rumanian lady and her son. Didn’t understand how they had arrived here of all places, but they were well patronised by the locals. One of the locals [the chap on the right of the picture] was unfortunately deaf and dumb – I think we could communicate with him easier than in Catalan! Had been a baker all his life and was a charming fellow.

Jovial Bar

Quite an exciting two days. Glad to get through them unscathed, but they do add to the overall experience and memories of a multi-day trek. To be continued….

Another warm blue sky day by the time we had surfaced and had a decent ‘desayuno’  Finding one’s way out of Spanish villages with all their intricate lanes can be a problem, the GR7 way-marks only reappear on the outskirts. As usual we had the locals shouting and pointing to the correct way. An old lane lead up between the cliffs and on up through a large barranca. It crossed our minds if this route would be passable after heavy rain — but how rare is that?

Dry barranca.

Coming out onto a plateau of abandoned terraces there were great views back to Vallibona. Can you imagine the activity when all this land was cultivated, I just wonder with all Spain’s [and the rest of Europe] economic woes if there may need to be a resurgence of such labour?

Distant Vallibona.

Abandoned terraces

We enjoyed a picnic stop watching several Griffon vultures soaring above us. My photos of these are poor but if you are interested watch —   http://vimeo.com /3210466  They are spectacular. Woodland tracks  and open hillsides took us on down to the next village of El Boixar. We passed  several Chozo which we assumed to be shepherds huts.

Chozo – El Boixar

As we approached the village there was an obvious change in the weather with low mist coming and going. El Boixar is small and looks run down, the owner of the casa we hope to get for the night is away, and we inquire rather optimistically  at the local bar.  Toni, the bar owner, takes us up to some rooms in the village and invites us for dinner later. All sorted!

El Boixar

Toni’s bar

The bar was very small, only half a dozen people live in the village. Nevertheless it was quite lively [half the village population!] when we returned for dinner. We were treated to a lovely meal and lots of local entertainment.

Cafe dinner!

One of the men talking loudly in Spanish turned out to be originally from  Darlington, my birthplace!!! What are the chances of that? He had been living and working here for many years and was obviously well assimilated into the local community. Their main topic of conversation was the lack of water as there had been no appreciable rain for two years. We stocked up with food for the next couple of days, i.e. bread, tuna and tomatoes. Several orujos [strong spirit] later we tried to find our way back up through the confusing alleys to our casa.

Next morning everything looked a bit dull, not just us, as we set off along ancient paths through previously cultivated fields. There was an eerie silence to the place. The temperature had dropped and there was moisture in the air. A small village of Fredes [population of 4 but a retreat from Barcelona at weekends] provided a bar for a drink at lunchtime. We went and sat outside to secretly eat our own bocadillos with our beers only for the barmaid to bring us some olives and titbits to accompany our meagre repast.  Can you see that happening in England — I just love the Spanish.                         Carrying about 3litres of water we set off to the Refugio Font Ferrera at 1200m where we hoped to find an open room as there was only a guardian at weekends. The old track took us up through forests below superb unclimbed crags.

The crack would go at about HVS

By now the mist had descended and we were in a remote world of our own hoping the refuge would appear. We were a little disappointed by the size of  it –

Lilliputian refuge

This one housed a questionnaire on the GR7 – not many people passing through according to the book. An hour later we stumbled across the real refuge hidden in the the mist and trees.

Refugio Font Ferrera

We were relieved to find an open room at the back with decent sleeping platforms and mattresses. There were even some bottles of water left so we needed to have carried any — still it leaves some for the less fortunate.  The Pieman was concerned that we had no candles but I located  a switch that provided light!! [Solar panels have arrived in the mountain refuges] The night was foul with wind and heavy rain, but we were as snug as two bugs in a rug.

Cozy refuge

The only thing disturbing my dreams was what tomorrow would bring ……….

Just hop on a plane to Spain and you will find lots of beautiful trails to enjoy. I’ve been walking the GR7 now for a few years – doing a few weeks at a time. The trail goes through the mountains from Tarifa in the SW  to Andorra, about 2000K.

This last week have been walking between Morella and Tivissa in Catalonia.
 Unable to blog from my phone [technophobic] I’m catching up from home.

Two of us [my cousin The Pieman has been drafted in for a trip] flew into Reus with your friendly airline, jumped a taxi to Tarragona railway station to catch a train down the coast to a place called Vinaros.  But at the last minute found out from Tourist Information that there are no buses from there to Morella, our intended destination in the hills. A quick change of plan found us on a slow train to Castellon where there may be a bus.  Don’t know why after two and a half hours I decide to go to the loo just as the train slows down for the next station. Panic sets in when the train stops and I suspect this is Castellon. A quick sprint back down several coaches finds Pieman staring out of the windows unable to see a station name. Grabbing everything we jump out of the train just as the doors close and it speeds off to Valencia – that was close!

After a coffee to calm down we go in search of the bus to Morella – the general consensus of the locals is that there is one later in the afternoon. The journey takes over two hours through unknown villages and a spectacular hairpin road up to Morella.

Approaching Morella

We are the only ones to survive this far and wander off into the labyrinth of lanes to find a place to stay. We stumble across the Fonda Moreno and get a room. It’s been a long day so we go in search of a beer and find an authentic looking local bar. I don’t know what it is but we always seem to attract either the local nutter or a well-drunken stranger. This time it was the latter, speaking rapid Spanish, and it took us some time to extricate ourselves.

Superb supper and  a long night’s sleep found us refreshed the next morning to locate the GR7 way-marks [red and white flashes]

Don’t believe the times!

This is what we had come for – blue skies and warm days. Spent the morning walking up a dry barranca until stopped by cliffs.

Dry barranca.

Climbing out brought us onto a large limestone ridge which we followed for an hour or so. There were superb views back to the castellated hill town of Morella.

Morella in the distance.

A graded descent on an ancient mule track eventually brought us into the small isolated village of Vallibona surrounded by spectacular cliffs, it had taken us 6hrs. We found a very friendly cheap hostale  for the night, enjoyed another tasty supper and quiet night’s sleep. This is how it is in these Spanish mountain villages.  Only a few dozen people live permanently in this village although a lot of the houses have been renovated as weekend retreats from Barcelona etc.

Vallibona

Some of the locals.